


crazy

by midnightdiddle (gooseberry)



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Family, Gen, Marriage, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-01 04:46:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12697653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/midnightdiddle
Summary: Some days, she's afraid she's going crazy.She forgets things. Not lots of things, not all the time, but just sometimes. She'll look up from the kitchen table, at the set table and warm food, and she'll wonder,how did I get here?orwhy pot roast?Not big things, not like she reads in magazines, or that she sees in the movies. She never wakes up covered in blood, or with a briefcase full of money beside her. She wakes up to pot roast on the table, and the dishes all cleaned in the kitchen.And sometimes, she wonders if she's going crazy.--Season One compliant fic, because Sandra Bennet was my fav.





	crazy

Some days, she's afraid she's going crazy.

She forgets things. Not lots of things, not all the time, but just sometimes. She'll look up from the kitchen table, at the set table and warm food, and she'll wonder, _How did I get here?_ or _Why pot roast?_ Not big things, not like she reads in magazines, or that she sees in the movies. She never wakes up covered in blood, or with a briefcase full of money beside her. She wakes up to pot roast on the table, and the dishes all cleaned in the kitchen.

And sometimes, she wonders if she's going crazy.

She knows that people, some people, have this problem. Blackouts, and they wake up in a different place, and don't know how they got there. Or they'll wake up, and can't remember the past few days (or sometimes, the website says, even months or years). It's schizophrenia, she thinks. At least, that's what she remembers; that's what scares her.

It's not as bad now, not like it used to be. It used to be really bad, when Claire was a baby. Back then, she would blink, and look around, and every week, she would wonder, "When did I change," and "How did I get home," and "Why is Claire's room pink? It was yellow before."

She used to forget a lot of things, and she used to hide her face in her pillow at night, and try not to cry too loud, because she didn't want to wake Noah up. She didn't want to scare Noah. She didn't want Noah to think she was crazy, to take Claire away, because she wasn't crazy. She didn't want to _be_ crazy. She wanted to be _her_. She wanted to not forget things.

She doesn't cry into her pillow anymore, because Noah noticed (because Noah notices every thing, every time she's frustrated or nervous and scared, and he always takes her hands, and holds on, and tells her, _I'm here, I'm right here_ ). It never really helped, anyway. Just made her headaches worse, made her feel stuffy and irritated. So instead, she looks at the photo albums, and touches each one, and makes sure she remembers each picture, each day. And she does-- mostly. Sometimes, she can't remember one. Sometimes, she asks herself, "Why did I let Lyle's hair get so long?" and "Where was this?" and "Why don't I remember going to a beach?"

When Lyle was in elementary school, and Claire started junior high, she had forgotten a lot of things. A lot of time. A week, she thinks. Maybe more. She woke up one morning, and looked at Noah, and said, "I'm scared."

He had kissed her, first her lips, then each cheek, then her forehead, and said, "I'm here." And he'd brushed her hair, had helped her get dressed. Had given her tylenol for the headache, and had stayed home from work, calling in on a sick day. He'd followed her around the house all day, carrying the laundry basket and helping her with the dishes; when she sank down at the table and laid her head down to cry, he'd knelt beside her, and had put his hands on her knees, and his head on his hands, and had hummed to her while she cried.

It was, she remembers, very good of him. And she hadn't been as scared then. And she had, she remembers, told him many things. Of how she was scared, and how sometimes, she forgot things. And how she missed her babies, how she hated rattling around in a big empty house all day, folding the laundry and waiting to hear the kids come home from school.

He'd kissed her kneecaps, her knobby knees, and had said, "It will be alright. We'll always come home to you." And then she'd wrapped her arms around him, and put her head against his neck, and had cried until her head hurt and her throat was dry and her nose was running; her makeup had been ruined, and her hair, too, and he had said she was beautiful, and had kissed her again.

The next week, he'd brought home Mr. Muggles. Tiny little puppy, small enough to curl up in the palm of her hand. He'd told her to close her eyes, hold out her hands ("Do you trust me, Sandra?"), and he'd put the puppy in her hands, and said, "For you."

She loves him, the fluffy little pom that follows her around the house. She loves, and cradles him in her arms, holds him like a baby. Presses her face against his fur, and breathes in, and tells herself that it's okay, she's not going to forget. She's not going crazy, and she's a good mother and wife. A good woman.

It's enough. The dog shows take up time, and Mr. Muggles takes up her life. Gives her something to do, when the laundry is put away and the kids are still at school. Lets her remember things. She doesn't forget Mr. Muggles, not like she forgets Claire and Lyle and Noah (and always, she's forgetting more about Noah than anyone else; forgetting all the little things, but not how much she desperately, desperately, punch-in-the-gut _loves_ him).

"Do you like him?" Noah had asked, when she had first held Mr. Muggles. And then, like now, every time she forgot something small (the dishes, the laundry, picking Lyle up from practice, taking Claire to school, going to bed with Noah), she had rubbed her face in his fur (and she does now, too, smells in his fur and flowery shampoo) and said, "I love him."

(She loves them. Claire, Lyle, _Noah_. Loves them so, so, so very much it makes her weak in the knees, weak in the chest. She loves them _so much_ , and she doesn't want to forget.)


End file.
